


Something about cats and boxers

by SEABlRD



Series: Brief Encounters of the... Awkward kind...? [1]
Category: Undertale
Genre: Awkward first meeting, Other, POV Second Person, Reader Is Not Frisk, Reader-Insert, boxers are indeed involved, it's on the surface btw, lets assume Frisk is a good kid and let everybody stay on the surface after a true pacifist run, second chapter is not a chapter it's kinda an update ?, your cat is a bit of an ass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 09:42:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6465400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SEABlRD/pseuds/SEABlRD
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To whom it may concern,<br/>I have come into possession of your boxers thanks to my kleptomaniac cat and I would like to return them to you.<br/>---<br/>inspired by this one post on Tumblr i saw about a cat that steals underwear</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> wow my very first finished fic in forever, I'd like to thank the academy
> 
> apologies in advance if none of this makes sense, my editing policy is currently 'do nothing'
> 
> p.s. to get the full experience feel free to listen to this! http://youtubeonrepeat.com/watch/?v=YnO-hpds7As

You stare each other down, both poised to strike at any moment. A drop of sweat rolls down your temple, and you grit your teeth at the feeling. You’d wipe it off, but any sudden movement- well, any movement at all might make your opponent bolt. The air conditioner’s faint humming can be heard over both of your breathing and, from somewhere beyond the window, cicadas buzz. He has a wad of fabric in his mouth, and while you usually wouldn’t mind this you’re fairly certain that he’s holding a pair of boxers.

“Just give them to me, buddy, and neither of us has to get hurt.” You plead, reaching out slowly to grab the offending garment. He tilts his head to the side, watching your hand with distrust. You watch him with the same sentiment.

He moves. You lunge for him and he leaps gracefully over you, dragging his claws up your arm as he passes you. You curse and twist around to grab him. You miss, of course, and he sails right by your outstretched hand.

Your evil friend has a glint of amusement in his eye when you crash into the table, and the coat rack, and, finally, the door. You wince, pushing yourself off the ground and rubbing your poor, abused shoulders. You shoot a glare of pure hatred at the furry little asshole.

Your cat has been bringing you pairs of boxers periodically since the beginning of summer and, from the looks of it, it’s the exact same design as the others you have stashed in your hamper. It’s a wide-hipped model, entirely black, with little bone patterns printed into it. If you didn’t have twenty of the exact same pair, you’d never believe your cat managed to steal different ones each time.

You go for the boxers again, managing to snag the elastic with the tip of your finger. Yes! You yank them out of his mouth and hold them above your head in victory.

“Heck yeah! Suck on that, Jug!” Yes, your cat’s name is Jug. Well, nickname at least. Jug gives you a dirty look for stealing his new toy once again and slinks into the kitchen. You, on the other hand, hold up your prize and take it to the laundry room.

Hey, your cat may have stolen twenty pairs of boxers, but you’re not going to give them back full of kitty drool. You toss the new pair into the washer and retrieve your phone from your pocket. You stand near the air conditioner and gaze out the window as you dial the familiar number and wait.

It rings twice before the person on the other end picks up. “Y’ello, this is the local mortuary, you tag ‘em we bag ‘em! What can I do for you?”

You sigh at your landlord’s antics. “Hey, Robbie, I’m gonna have to ask you to send up a guy to fix the table in my apartment again.”

“Aw, don’t tell me the ol’ Juggernaut got the best of ya again? Same pair as always?”

“Of course he did. And it’s not my fault cats are practically liquid! He’s really fast, okay, it’s not easy to catch him!” You defend, pouting. You hear Robbie laugh on the other end.

“Yeah yeah, excuses. I’ll have a guy go up to help ya either tonight or tomorrow morning. And you’re gonna have to find out who owns those boxers someday, bud,” he points out. “Can’t hang on to those forever.”

“Pity, I was thinking of keeping some. I’ll put up a notice on the board or something later.” You joke and wave your hand dismissively even though he can’t see you through the phone. “And don’t call my cat Juggernaut, it sounds so much more badass than his actual name and it makes me feel bad.”

“Aw, don’t be like that! Your name for him is just as good!”

The two of you argue about the name of your cat for a few minutes before Robbie is called away. You bid him farewell and turn back to your apartment to asses the damage. From what you can tell, the table in the hallway is collapsed beyond your repairing skills and the coat rack is dangerously close to snapping in half. Not as bad as it could have been, you reason, since you’ve already seen or been the cause of worse.

Jug stares at you from the counter, paw on his empty food bowl. Ah yes, you must serve your feline lord. You shoo him off the counter as you make your way to the pantry, heaving up the large bag of cat food and dumping some into the bowl beside the fridge.

With that done, you stash the bag back under the shelves and wipe your hands on your pants. Jug makes a satisfied noise and sits beside his bowl for his meal.

You watch him eat for a few seconds before going to fetch your computer. Might as well get that sign typed up and posted, right? You can’t let more boxers fill your hamper, there’s a limit to how much potential mortification and battles against your cat you can take. You settle into your desk chair and turn on the small fan, enjoying it’s gentle breeze as your computer boots up.

It takes nearly a half hour before you can type up a decent poster that doesn’t sound creepy or fake. Well, it’s already pretty ridiculous that you even _have_ to type up a poster for someone’s missing twenty pairs of boxers, but what can you do. You read it over before hitting ‘print’ and  mentally patting yourself on the back.

>   _“To whom it may concern,_
> 
> _I have come into possession of your boxers thanks to my kleptomaniac cat and I would like to return them to you. They are XL black boxers with a white bone pattern printed into them. I have twenty of the same pair, so feel free to tell me how many you want back. Please come pick them up at apartment 3F, I’ll be here all day until tomorrow night.”_

That sounds good enough, right? If the owner of the boxers isn’t from your apartment building, well, let’s just say that you’re not going to start putting up “FOUND!” Posters all over the city. Meaning: he better be in your apartment building.

You’ll have to put this up on the corkboard downstairs at some point, your embarrassment be damned. No time like the present. You roll your chair away from the desk and grab the printed paper from your desk as you head to the door. As you pass by the kitchen you notice Jug sitting in a ray of sunlight on the counter again. You really need to get him to stop going there, you put food there for god’s sake! You open the door, never breaking eye contact with the fuzzy beast, and give him an ‘I’m watching you’ gesture as you walk out of your apartment backward.

You hum some tune you heard on the radio but don’t remember the lyrics to as you stride down the hall, pretending as though you’re not holding a paper that literally states that you have twenty pairs of someone else’s boxers. Nobody looks your way, which you’re lowkey grateful for. Not that there’s anybody willing to leave the comfort of their ACs on a day like this anyway, so the chances of running into someone are slim to none.

You take the stairs instead of the elevator, knowing that standing in a metal box for more than ten seconds might actually cook you alive. By the time you reach the bottom, you’ve broken into a light sweat. The paper in your hand is slightly crumpled, now, but it’s still legible so there’s no way you’re going back to print a new one. You pull a tack off the board and stick your notice into a corner.

Might as well check out what other news your building has for the week, while you’re here. Some of the usual stuff like travel brochures and advertisements clutter the board, but a few interesting things catch your eye. Free Nicecream coupons and an ad for discounted prices for new monster residents, for example.

Right. Monsters. That’s a thing that exists, now, and they can get a discounted price for an apartment in your building, apparently. That’s cool, you suppose. Robbie never was the kind of guy for discrimination, after all.

Sure, it’d been a shock to see thousands of monsters come crawling out of the seemingly dull and abandoned Mount Ebott, but life only got better with them around. They were so nice and barely mean or judgemental at all, it’s a wonder anybody could hate them. You have no particular opinions about them, other than liking the really hilarious cat monster that works at the starbucks down the street.

You decide to snag those Nicecream coupons for yourself. You’re doing a good deed by returning these boxers to their mysterious owner, so you deserve a treat. Besides, it’s not your fault none of the other tenants came downstairs and saw these. Finders keepers.

You take the stairs back up two at a time, glad to have gotten that done for the day. You notice someone standing outside your door and wave to them. They wave back and hold up a toolbox. Bless Robbie and his almost scary efficiency.

“You’re the one that likes to fight your cat indoors?” The man asks as you unlock your door and invite him inside.

You groan at that. “It sounds so bad when you put it that way. And you’d fight him, too, if you had to live with him all the time!”

He just chuckles.

_________________________

So your table is fixed and night falls. You leave your window open for Jug to go out in case he wants to wander around at night, and to let in some of the cool air into your house. You’ve turned off the AC for now, leaving just the fan on to get a breeze through your apartment.

You spend until 2am on your phone browsing the internet and laughing at dumb videos before passing out.

The next time you’re conscious it’s surprisingly not because of Jug sitting on your face. You grumble and press your face back into your pillow until the knocking at your door rouses you from your sleep again.

You roll onto your side and wonder where you could have went wrong in a previous life to deserve being woken up at this ungodly hour of 6am in the middle of summer. Jug looks up at you from his spot on the floor, basking in the faint morning sunlight coming through your window. Is there even heat in the sunlight at this time? He gives you an innocent look, as though he hasn’t been the one to wake you up this early on countless other occasions. You make a face at him as you get up.

You run your fingers through your hair as you trudge slowly toward the door. You may be annoyed, but there’s no need to be both annoyed and ugly first thing in the morning. Especially when you have to greet someone.

You swing the door open just as the person on the other side starts knocking again. Both of you stare at each other in shock for a few seconds, though likely for different reasons. The person across from you is a stocky-looking skeleton (definitely not a sentence you thought you’d ever have to say before) in a blue hoodie and black basketball shorts. Probably a monster, if not some weirdo in a remarkably well-made costume.

He probably thinks you’re some kind of monster too, given how you most likely look about as tired and disgusting as you feel. He hesitates before glancing down at a paper in his hand- oh.

“Is, uh. Is this 3F?” He asks hesitantly. Well, that is a voice you wouldn’t mind hearing more often. You nod at his question, and he sighs in relief. “Thank the stars. I knocked on the door across from you and got this really sketchy looking old man and I’m really glad he wasn’t the guy I was looking for.”

You snort. That sketchy looking old man happens to be an art teacher at the nearby university, and he can’t help how eccentric he acts or looks. You suspect it may be a result of prolonged exposure to epoxy fumes, but you aren’t going to judge him if it’s not.

“So you’re here for the boxers, am I right?” You internally wince at how scratchy your voice sounds. “Come on in, I washed them all so you won’t get any cat spit or fur in them.”

You lead him inside waving to the basket full of bone-print boxers. “They’re all there. You can even count them, and everything.”

He spares you a grateful look and picks up the pile of boxers. You stop him as he moves to leave your apartment.

“Hang on.” You tug on the sleeve of his hoodie. “I have to know how you got so many of the exact same pair of these. It’s honestly impressive. Also, how can you stand to wear a hoodie in the middle of summer? I have questions, my dude.”

The skeleton snorts, though _how_ you have no idea. “That’s a bit of a long story, but the short version of it is that they didn’t start out with this print on it. My brother made the stencil and prints it into every new pair of boxers I get.”

It takes a few seconds for you to process this information. “Your brother printed all of these for you… and you guys are skeletons...? You’re not ribbing me, are you?”

A slow grin spreads across his face and it takes you an additional few seconds to realize the unintentional joke you just made. Oh no. You feel yourself getting red in the face. Was that rude? Did that come across as racist? Do you need to put a quarter in the insensitivity jar?

The skeleton guffaws at your pun, nearly dropping his boxers in the process (again, not a sentence you ever thought you’d have to say).

“Nice one, pal,” he wheezes as he tries to compose himself. “I gotta say, a person who returns stolen goods _and_ makes bad jokes is a good person to me.”

You feel a little better, deciding to go with another joke to ease your nerves. “Yeah, what can I say. Gotta make up for my pet cat-burglar.”

Another bout of laughter escapes him and he wipes at his eye sockets with the leg of one of the boxers in his arms. “Man, I have to meet this cat and congratulate it for having such a cool owner,” his grin melts into an amused smile.

“Nah, that’s because of the AC.” you point at the device and give your own shit-eating grin.

“I gotta say, I’m a _fan_ of these jokes, buddy.” The skeleton finally manages to calm down. He struggles with his boxers for a second then holds his hand out to you. You try not to stare. “It’s nice meeting you, really. I’m Sans. Sans the skeleton.”

You take his hand and shake it. “I’m ___. ___ the human.” You return. You feel something furry brush against your ankle and you swoop down to grab Jug before he can run away.

“And this, here, is the criminal we’ve been speaking of.” You introduce your cat by holding up one of his paws and waving it at Sans. Jug is less than impressed. “His name is Jug, which is actually short for-”

Oh no. You can’t say that now, it’s too stupid and highly coincidental. Did someone turn the AC off? You feel your face getting warmer. If this keeps up, you might have to check in with your doctor about your blood pressure. Sans looks at you as you struggle to accept your fate and tell him the unfortunate name of your cat.

“Short for…?” He prompts, clearly curious about your inner struggle about a name. You give in, slumping your shoulders.

“... Quadratojugal.”

Another wide grin finds its place on Sans’ face. “You mean, like the-”

“Yes, like the bone. I get it, it’s a hilarious coincidence.” You sigh, and Sans starts laughing again. You almost don’t resist the urge to shove him for it. “Ha ha, laugh it up. It was clever at the time, okay?”

You really don’t feel like getting into the story behind your cat’s name, especially this early in the morning and with a _skeleton_ who’s bone-print boxers you’ve only just returned a few minutes ago, there’s only so much excitement you can handle at this hour.

“I sense that there may be a good story behind that name,” Sans’ laughter tapers off. “You gotta tell me that, sometime.”

Sometime? Is he expecting to see you again? It sounds more like something redundant one would say in the heat of conversation, but you wouldn’t be opposed to it as long as you weren’t meeting up at 6 in the morning. Then you catch a glimpse of the two coupons on the table behind him.

“How about later, then? Around noon-ish, if you’re not busy?” You offer, letting Jug jump down from your arms when he struggles in your hold. “I’m probably going out for some Nicecream, it would be _chill_ if you could join me.”

Sans seems surprised at your offer, and flounders with his words for a bit before something coherent comes out of his mouth. “S- sure, I’d love to get some Nicecream.” He shrugs, a light dusting of blue spreading across his???? Cheekbones??? “You’re gonna have to pay, though, cause I don’t have a tab with them yet.”

Something about the idea of having a tab with an ice cream stand amuses you greatly.

“It’s no problem, I’ve got some coupons. And this’ll be a great opportunity to tell me why someone like you,” you point at him to get your, ha, _point_ across. “Needs to wear boxers.”

The blue flush on his face deepens and you feel an almost sick sense of satisfaction at that. He produces some more stuttered word vomit and something that sounds a bit like “see you later I guess” as he shuffles toward the door. You follow him as he leaves your apartment, fumbling with his armful of boxers when he tries to wave on his way back down the hall.

“I promise I won’t look this gross and exhausted, later!” You call after him, and his laughter dances in your ears even long after he’s disappeared into the elevator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope this didn't format weird \\( ;v; )/
> 
> anyway, thanks for having a look! ( ^_^)b


	2. possible continuation ??? + companion side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wanna write more for this bc it was absolutely fantastic to finally write without being anxious for the first time in yEARS

hey, to all you who enjoyed this fic! Thank you so much for your comments and kudos, they really mean a lot to me \\( ;v; )/ 

 

that being said, I'm thinking of making more chapters, or related oneshots for this fic ??? or even just more awkward first meetings because those are always great. That's where you guys come in! I'd like for you to take this chapter as a ""suggestions box"" and drop me some prompts or questions that you'd like to see come out of this! I already have a companion for this oneshot in mind (from Sans' POV) but any ideas for future continuations would be happily accepted!

 

thank you again for your support, I love you! <3


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